Well might MOKANNA think that form alone
Had spells enough to make the world his own:
Light, lovely limbs, to which the spirit's play
Gave motion, airy as the dancing spray,
When from its stem the small bird wings away:
Lips in whose rosy labyrinth, when she smil'd,
The soul was lost; and blushes, swift and wild
As are the momentary meteors sent

Across the' uncalm, but beauteous firmament.

now crost

And then her look oh! where's the heart so wise
Could unbewilder'd meet those matchless eyes?
Quick, restless, strange, but exquisite withal,
Like those of angels, just before their fall;
Now shadow'd with the shames of earth
By glimpses of the Heav'n her heart had lost;
In every glance there broke, without control,
The flashes of a bright, but troubled soul,
Where sensibility still wildly play'd,
Like lightning, round the ruins it had made!

And such was now young ZELICA – so chang'd
From her who, some years since, delighted rang'd
The almond groves that shade BOKHARA's tide,
All life and bliss, with Azim by her side!
So alter'd was she now, this festal day,

When, 'mid the proud Divan's dazzling array,
The vision of that Youth whom she had lov'd,
Had wept as dead, before her breath'd and mov'd ;-
When
- bright, she thought, as if from Eden's track
But half-way trodden, he had wander'd back

Again to earth, glistening with Eden's light-
Her beauteous AZIм shone before her sight.

O Reason! who shall say what spells renew, When least we look for it, thy broken clew! Through what small vistas o'er the darken'd brain Thy intellectual day-beam bursts again; And how, like forts, to which beleaguerers win Unhop'd-for entrance through some friend within, One clear idea, wakened in the breast By memory's magic, lets in all the rest. Would it were thus, unhappy girl, with thee! But though light came, it came but partially; Enough to show the maze, in which thy sense Wander'd about, but not to guide it thence; Enough to glimmer o'er the yawning wave, But not to point the harbour which might save. Hours of delight and peace, long left behind, With that dear form came rushing o'er her mind; But, oh! to think how deep her soul had gone In shame and falsehood since those moments shone; And, then, her oath - there madness lay again,

And, shuddering, back she sunk into her chain
Of mental darkness, as if blest to flee

From light, whose every glimpse was agony!

Yet, one relief this glance of former years

Brought, mingled with its pain, tears, floods of

tears,

Long frozen at her heart, but now like rills

Let loose in spring-time from the snowy hills,

And gushing warm, after a sleep of frost,
Through valleys where their flow had long been lost.

Sad and subdued, for the first time her frame
Trembled with horror, when the summons came
(A summons proud and rare, which all but she,
And she, till now, had heard with ecstasy,)
To meet MOKANNA at his place of prayer,
A garden oratory, cool and fair,

By the stream's side, where still at close of day
The Prophet of the Veil retir'd to pray ;
Sometimes alone — but, oftener far, with one,
One chosen nymph to share his orison.

Of late none found such favour in his sight As the young Priestess; and though, since that night When the death-caverns echoed every tone Of the dire oath that made her all his own,

The' Impostor, sure of his infatuate prize,

Had, more than once, thrown off his soul's disguise,
And utter'd such unheav'nly, monstrous things,
As ev'n across the desperate wanderings

Of a weak intellect, whose lamp was out,
Threw startling shadows of dismay and doubt;
Yet zeal, ambition, her tremendous vow,

The thought, still haunting her, of that bright brow,
Whose blaze, as yet from mortal eye conceal'd,
Would soon, proud triumph! be to her reveal'd,
To her alone; and then the hope, most dear,

Most wild of all, that her transgression here

Was but a passage through earth's grosser fire,
From which the spirit would at last aspire,

Ev'n purer than before, as perfumes rise

Through flame and smoke, most welcome to the skies

And that when AZIM's fond, divine embrace
Should circle her in heav'n, no darkening trace
Would on that bosom he once lov'd remain,
But all be bright, be pure, be his again!

These were the wildering dreams, whose curst deceit
Had chain'd her soul beneath the tempter's feet,
And made her think ev'n damning falsehood sweet.
But now that Shape, which had appall'd her view,
That Semblance-oh how terrible, if true!
Which came across her frenzy's full career
With shock of consciousness, cold, deep, severe,
As when, in northern seas, at midnight dark,
An isle of ice encounters some swift bark,
And, startling all its wretches from their sleep,
By one cold impulse hurls them to the deep;
So came that shock not frenzy's self could bear,
And waking up each long-lull'd image there,
But check'd her headlong soul, to sink it in despair!

Wan and dejected, through the evening dusk, She now went slowly to that small kiosk, Where, pondering alone his impious schemes, MOKANNA waited her

too wrapt in dreams Of the fair-ripening future's rich success, To heed the sorrow, pale and spiritless,

That sat upon his victim's downcast brow,

Or mark how slow her step, how alter'd now
From the quick, ardent Priestess, whose light bound
Came like a spirit's o'er the' unechoing ground,
From that wild ZELICA, whose every glance
Was thrilling fire, whose every thought a trance!

Upon his couch the Veil'd MOKANNA lay, While lamps around — not such as lend their ray, Glimmering and cold, to those who nightly pray In holy Kooм,* or MECCA's dim arcades, But brilliant, soft, such lights as lovely maids Look loveliest in, shed their luxurious glow Upon his mystic Veil's white glittering flow. Beside him, 'stead of beads and books of prayer, Which the world fondly thought he mused on there, Stood Vases, fill'd with KISHMEE'S † golden wine, And the red weepings of the SHIRAZ vine; Of which his curtain'd lips full many a draught Took zealously, as if each drop they quaff'd, Like ZEMZEM's Spring of Holiness, had power To freshen the soul's virtues into flower!

And still he drank and ponder'd - nor could see
The' approaching maid, so deep his reverie;

* The cities of Com (or Koom) and Cashan are full of mosques, mausoleums, and sepulchres of the descendants of Ali, the Saints of Persia.- Chardin.

† An island in the Persian Gulf, celebrated for its white wine. The miraculous well at Mecca; so called, says Sale, from the murmuring of its waters.